Offer Up Your Last Defense
by Meredith Bronwen Mallory
Summary: The bonds created at the 4077th may extend beyond what the personel consider 'reality'.
1. Coming in From Someplace

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Iyaaa! This is my first MASH fic, so I'm a little nervous. Forgive me. First off, thank you so much for bothering to read this! It's very kind of you to take the time. I hope this doesn't disappoint.

Secondly, this is slash-- it's not graphic slash, but it's f/f and m/m. No worse than what you might see in a PG movie. Just warning you. ^_^

Hmmm... is there anything else to say? Just that this is a little odd, but I hope you enjoy it. Feedback will cause me to love you forever and ever. ^_~

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Offer Up Your Last Defense 1/4

By Meredith Bronwen Mallory

mallorys-girl@cinci.rr.com

http://www.demando.net/

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"I am afraid," Erin Hunnicut breathed the words out low, under the air she released from her lungs. She held her hands cupped in front of her on the shiny, vaguely sticky counter top, as if she could hold her admission of fear in her slightly damp palms. She said it again, "I am afraid," with emphasis on the 'am'. Her reflection, plastic and distorted on the murky-brown table top, looked back at her without remorse. There were other words inside the twenty year old college student, words that needed to get out before she slit her throat to free them. There was a knife, dull and of well used metal, laying partially wrapped in a paper napkin. 

Her father was a doctor-- his hands guided silver knifes along flesh to cut and rend and mend.

(Can I tell you, Papa?)

"What's the matter with me?" Erin let her hands come up to cradle her skull, resting her elbows on the table. She breathed in once, quickly, and then out, surprised that the need to cry felt like sand in her eyes. Her hair, a lustered, winter branch brown, fell like a veil over her hands, and for a moment she was safe in a little cave, smelling in her own locks the clinging scent on her mother's favorite shampoo. She used it to remind herself, to give herself strength, because one of her very first memories was of being lifted and held against the warm curve of a breast, that light rose scent coming to her little baby button nose. 

'I wish you wouldn't wear that," her father sometimes said, half-teasing, if he caught a whiff of her matching perfume. 

Mom lived in Seattle, now.

Turning her wrist deftly, Erin flicked her gaze over her watch. 

"Come on, Abby," she pleaded softly. For a moment, Erin allowed herself the luxury of imagining Abigail's well-loved form, and how they pressed their cheeks together when they danced (blush powder on blush powder, smooth) in the dorm room with all the shades drawn down tight. 

"You gonna order something, honey?" the voice was rough, and Erin brought her hands hard and palm down against the table. Her heart hammered somewhere along her vocal cords. The waitress gazed at her from under electric blue eye-shadow and white mascara–it looked like she'd been crying, like Erin's own mother crying, like the dreams she sometimes had right before morning and she was afraid her papa was still in Korea. 

__

(No, no... you made that up, you don't remember that. You made it up. You were too young to remember.)

Then what was that other, brief little image, of a short teddy-bear man with round coke bottle glasses? She'd called him "Daddy"–he wasn't her father. She called her real father "papa".

The waitress tapped her pen with annoyance, and Erin forced her voice to work.

"Yeah," the sounds were clipped and almost didn't made sense together, "Yeah. I'll have some fries. I'm waiting for someone."

The waitress grunted, unimpressed, and turned with a sway-sway of her short orange skirt. Erin almost returned to her blind contemplation of the counter, when a shadow dropped over the brown surface. 

Looking up suddenly, Erin saw a blue so bright it hurt; then her eyes adjusted to take in the rest of the stranger. His eyes were the blue, a San Francisco summer-day when all the colors are so vibrant you think you're in a melting painting by Vincent Van Goh. And behind his eyes–behind them were the same tortured brush strokes, too. A few locks of graying ebony hair fell over his forehead, and he stuffed his hands in his pockets like he didn't want to be idle with them. For a moment, Erin's gaze was drawn towards the door through which he had come–outside the world seemed more desolate and dry and crazy than a city summer day ever ought to be... 

__

(He came in from some place else)

... but then it was gone, and she could see the people moving on the street.

"Hey, kid," said the stranger, with affection, shrugging his shoulder's underneath his khaki t-shirt, "You look like you just got trapped in the place you least wanna be."

Erin frowned, bit her lip, but could not stop herself from saying, "Yes."

"I've seen that look a lot," the man took a seat–he was tired, he moved like he'd never known how to stop working hard. "Too much. Funny thing, the human mind-- we only use twenty percent of it and still have enough to carry our own little hell around. Where you stuck at?"

"What's your name?" She scooted back against the red-lined booth, at the same time drawn forward. This man smelled like her father right through the door from work. He smelled of blood and medicine and people who came to him asking him to make it all better. 

"Benjamin Franklin," he said, dead pan. One large, skillful hand rose in the air, the wrist flicking with a flourish, "Famous in song and story; I have this kite thing going. Perhaps you've heard of me?" Now he was grinning-- it made him look so much younger. Boyish.

Erin laughed, the giggles drawn out of her throat despite herself, "No, really, what's your name?"

He leaned forward with his chin one hand, blue eyes winking in the dim sunlight, "No, really, that is my name. First and middle. My dad was too busy being passed out in the waiting room, so my mom named me–he had a fit."

"Alright," Erin smiled warily, "What's your last name?"

He countered with, "Does it matter?"

A pause, "To me, it does."

__

(She felt a little stir in the back of her mind–a quicksilver fish swimming through the lethe. She knew... she *knew* this face, had seen it smile. Where?)

"I'll tell you later," he promised, "Just call me Doc, I'm used to it."

"Like the dwarf?" she teased, absently picking up a French fry. She held it in her fingers, but didn't move it towards her mouth.

"Oh, yes,"he grinned, "I've also been Sleepy, Dopey, a little Grumpy..."

Erin covered her laughter with her hand.

"–And may I say, my dear," he winked, "You make a lovely Snow White."

"Waiting for my prince," she glanced at her watch again. She didn't need to say her prince's name was Abigail, and that Abigail was a girl, but loved Erin with a sweetness and intensity and hands and kisses that exalted. Finally, to cover her train of thought, Erin brought the hard, salty fry to her lip and gagged. "This is awful!"

Doc picked up a fry and studied it for a moment before taking a bite. He shrugged, "I've had a lot worse. Cover it with ketchup til you can't taste it–always worked for me." He sobered suddenly, "Where you stuck at, Erin? That place you don't wanna be?"

"I..."she began, and the words began to drop from her lips, like a death knell but strangely liberating. It only occurred to her later that she had never told him her name. 

"I gotta tell my papa something," she bent her head and studied the blur of her reflection. Across the table, in front of her guest, the table was blank. "So, the place I'm at is when I was a little girl, right after he came home from Korea. He and Mom would do this.. this thing. All day, little things would add up, and I'd watch them starting picking up their problems, and then at night when I was tucked in, they'd spill them all out in the kitchen. They thought I was asleep, but I could hear them yelling. I used to sit by the stairwell and listen, try to make sense. That's the feeling I'm at–hiding in the stairwell." Cheeks hot with shame, she pushed her hand up against her nose and looked away.

"No way," he took hold of her hand, "Don't you dare feel bad. If that's where you're at, it's where you're at."

"And you?"

His eyes seemed to dull, "Been at my bad place a while, but... I think I may be alright. Took me time, but I'm waiting for someone too, now. Won't be long." He took a breath and stared off somewhere, just past her shoulder and a million miles away. "Don't be afraid to tell your papa."

"Tell my papa what?" she tasted terror, real and stinging like food. Her eyes, a gray-blue, asked, "Do you know?"

With his eyes, Doc said, "Yes." But with his mouth, he said, "Whatever it is you gotta tell him." He ruffled her hair like she was his kid sister and traced one slim finger down her cheek, "You have your papa's eyes, you know." Then he was standing, and though he wasn't moving yet, she felt him drawing away. She opened her mouth, clenched her fingers as though she finally had that little silver-fish memory, and then–

"Erin!" She turned, saw a familiar cowboy-ish woman with dark hair, and was so happy it hurt. 

"Abigail," Erin breathed thankfully. Briefly, their hands clamored towards each other and held on, like little animals giving kisses. Erin let go quickly, it was all they dared to do in public. Instead, her hands came to rest over her heart, which was wham-thram-thruming under her white and blue flowered dress. 

"I'm really sorry, Erin," Abigail slid into the bench with the same consummate grace she used when mounting her motorcycle. She wore summery white as well, with splashes of hideously vibrant orange, pink and yellow, but with her thick legs and muscles it seemed like she wearing someone else's body. "You wouldn't believe the traffic. And it's so hot..."

Erin smiled, "Don't worry." She turned her head suddenly, as if just now catching hold of the knowledge of her previous visitor. The cafe was empty, save the waitresses and a man sleeping hunched over the bar. 

"What's wrong, Erin?" Abigail leaned over a little.

"Nothing," the shorter girl shook her head with slight violence, "It was just that there was this guy here and..." 

There he was–standing on the street just outside the diner window, eyes closed and head tipped up. He seemed to shake himself, and turned with an eerie accuracy to meet her gaze. He smiled, winked, and seemed to waver with the heat. A bat of her eyelash, and Erin couldn't see him anymore. 

"And?" Abigail prompted, "Was he hitting on you?"

Erin raked a hand through her shoulder-length hair, grinning, whispering, "Abby, are you jealous? Don't worry about it, never mind. I thought I'd seen him somewhere before." In a teasing, most scandalized a voice possible, "He was old enough to be my father!" She bit her lip then, and the two girls sobered in tandem. Abigail took off her glasses and absently knocked the tips against the table. Bad habit. 

"Look, Erin," she said, her voice low like smoke from a fizzling candle, "You don't have to do this."

"I ought to tell him," Erin's words seemed aimed inward, as if she was trying to convince herself, "He's my father. He's always been honest with me, even about Mom. I owe him honesty back." A little, lopsided smile, "Besides, you told your parents."

"Yes," Abigail conceded, "but my parents are just people I lived in a house with growing up. They're not real to me, and I'm not real to them. Otherwise, they would have loved me enough not to throw me out." She banged her glasses with authority, "Aunt Ruby says they're afraid of anything different. Did you know my mom actually tried to tell me that I am this way because Aunt Ruby held me when I was born and poisoned me?"

"I'm sorry," Erin said sincerely, "Your mom is..."

"A bigot? An idiot? All of the above?" Abigail grinned, and there was a cutting hurt behind her smile. "You and your father are close, Erin. I don't want you to have to choose between us."

Erin placed her hand along side her mouth. "I love you," she whispered, as loudly as she dared. 

"I love you too," the words were contraband, they were slipping them across the table. "But that's not an answer," Abigail pointed out. 

"No," Erin pushed away the fries, and shrugged her coat over her shoulders, "Will you walk home with me?"

Abigail's smile was tender and stretched with worry, "Of course, silly goose."

They left the diner, walking closely together without touching. 

=========

_She's six years old and she's laying in bed with the covers bunched at the bottom and the summer evening coming in the open window. It's half dark and warm–she is loved, and the fireflies her papa helped her catch wink at her brightly in the little jar by her bed. Erin's breathing is shallow, almost not-there, like Briar Rose, just waiting. _

Here come the thorns.

The phone rings, three long notes, tinny and almost unreal. When it stops, it seems there are no more crickets to make noise, and the house is silent. Wait.

It rings again, and she listens.

Her mother's voice, soft but with that edge that says she scared and tired and sorry. She always sounds like that in the evenings, when Papa withdraws behind the study doors. "Hello, this is the Hunnicut residence. Can I help you?"

Pause. Mother is clicking her long nails on the coffee table. 

"Uh-huh," vague, "Yes, well... My husband usually doesn't take calls this late." Mother's teeth are biting on the words. Erin wonders if everyone else notices that there are bite-marks in her mother's voice. "I understand. Hold on." A deft thump, the phone is resting on the table. Her mother's shadow passes underneath Erin's door. Now down the hall.

"BJ,"Mother raises her voice, as if Papa is in a distant land and cannot hear her. Like she's shouting over the ocean. "BJ. There's someone on the phone."

Rumbling of Papa's voice–but it's behind the door, so Erin can't hear what he's saying. 

Mother tries again, "It's Radar."

The next sounds are quick and merge together. Papa's heavy footfalls, hurried, and Mother trailing behind him. 

Papa's voice, "Hello?"

Erin pushes herself up on her elbows and slides out of bed, her pink pajamas gathering around her knees. With light, small steps, she comes to the door and her hand is dwarfed by the large knob as she turns it. Slipping in through the shaft of light, Erin makes her way into the hall and down to her Mother's room. Pale green sheets and curtains make the room seem like a whole other planet in the evening light. The bed is wide, and Erin kicks her feet in the air as she tries to scale it. She rolls towards the phone on the night stand, her body cradled in the dip of the bed. There is only one imprint, her mother's smooth outline–her father hasn't slept in here in years. 

Erin picks up the phone and doesn't dare to breathe.

"Radar, calm down," her father's voice in stereo; a distant thunder down the hall and a vibration in her ear. "What's wrong?"

"Sir, I called to tell you," a shaky breath, the sound of little boy tears coming from a not-so-grown man. "Gosh, I'm sorry. It's like Colonel Blake all over again and BJ, I..."

Her father's voice shakes like a tree in the wind, "What's like Colonel Blake?"

"Sir, BJ..." Another shuddering exhale.

The phone says, "Hawkeye is dead."

No sound, not-sound, anti-sound. 

There are no crickets, no sound of voices, just Erin adrift in her mother's too-big bed, squeezing the phone. And then...

(Wait for it!)

At first, Erin doesn't know what the noise is; she thinks its a closet-monster or the basement-thing. It's short and harsh and sounds like it's heart is being wrung out. 

"BJ!" Mother cries, high soprano and hitting an unusual note, "BJ! BJ, what's WRONG!?"

Erin realizes it is her father making that horrible crying-scream.

"Sir?" the phone sounds panicky.

Silence, as if Mom cut the noise out with her sewing scissors, "I'll have to call you back, Radar. Sorry."

Another click, but this one sounds like the guns on TV. Lock and load.

Erin drops the phone on her end, and it knocks against the dresser. Her mother's perfume bottles topple like dream-cities, but she can't scramble to pick them up. She can only wander like a ghost, out into the bright hallway, where father is standing at the other end. His tall form is bent over itself, he's got nothing to hold him up anymore, and he moves towards Erin like she *is* a ghost, like she *is* and he won't be able to touch her when he reaches her. Erin spreads her small arms.

"Papa," and her hands are clasped behind his neck, and he's carrying her to the study, where she sits in his lap and watches the tears roll down his cheeks. She has never seen a man cry before.

Papa holds onto her, tight but like he's afraid he'll break her. She talks to him and tells him stories all night, but the only thing he says to her is;

"Just give your papa a hug. Don't let go." 

==========

[To the tune of "We Three Kings"]

__

Me-re-dith is writing for MASH,

and she hopes her story's not trash,

she would love re-views,

if you so--- choose,

cause she certainly ain't getting cash. 

*wink*


	2. Something to Tell You

****

Author's Notes: Not much to say this time. ^_^ I hope this part doesn't disappoint, and I'm so glad you took the time to even click the link! Big thanks and chocolate Hawkeyes go to Addezia, Barrie, and Tabitha for the kind reviews!

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Offer Up Your Last Defense 2/4

By Meredith Bronwen Mallory

mallorys-girl@cinci.rr.com

http://www.demando.net/

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Erin and Abigail stood still, watching the setting sun burn their long shadows on the sidewalk ahead. Staring down the way, Erin's eyes traced the straight lines and angles of the house she'd grown up in. The driveway was empty; the weeping willow she'd planted the summer after mother left was dragging it's emerald, too-long tresses against the concrete. They stood at the corner, Erin leaning against the cooling metal bar of the street sign reading 'cooper' one way and 'cherry cove' the other. 

Abigail opened her mouth, once, twice, but couldn't seem to think of anything to say.

"Papa's not home yet," Erin nodded towards the house that watched with wide windows like eyes. "He works late in the summer a lot. Likes to keep busy."

Abigail nodded, as if chewing on her next words, "Erin, if... well, you know, *if*-- all you have to do is call. I'll come and pick you up, where ever you are, and we'll go to Aunt Ruby's. She says we can stay with her at least until we get our degrees and have something to start out on."

"That's what you did after your Mom had that break down, isn't it?" Erin asked. The words seemed harsh, but Abigail regarded her mother with the same vague fascination and disgust one has towards a strange, exotic and somehow hideous beast. 

"I mean, you called you Aunt Ruby?"

"Yup," the other girl waved her hand briefly in front of her chest-- the evening was swelling with humid warmth and the sound of June bugs that didn't know it was July. "She was really great about it. She knows what we're going through."

Erin cast her gaze down to where the smooth road became a line against the sky. With a sudden, half-clumsy graceful motion, she cradled her palms against Abigail's slim, sharp hips, pinching lightly. "Here's hoping I can have you over for dinner soon-- see if Papa and I can't put some meat on those skinny bones of yours." And then, because she didn't dare hold on any longer, she let go.

Abigail 'hmped' and tossed her hair, "Are you saying that I'm scrawny?"

"Oh, no," Erin moaned, pretending to be insulted, "It's just that one poke from your elbow could cause a fatal injury."

One delicate eyebrow raised, "Is that your diagnosis, doctor?"

The shorter girl snorted, "Not unless you're a qua draped mammal. I'm studying to be a Vet, not a physician. And," she added, seeing a wicked glint of star in her lover's eyes, "definitely not a Gyno."

"More's the pity." 

Down past the fire hydrant, the Thomas boy started up his mother's old Valiant. The two girls, still life portraits of hope and dread, waited patiently until the car passed and its rumbling hick-up faded away. Then, Abigail pressed two of her long fingers to her lips and reached for Erin's palm, tracing the shape of the kiss there.

They took a few steps apart, hands still touching. 

"See you later."

On the sidewalk, their shadows were still one-- then slipped apart like diverging raindrops.

"Yeah, see you."

"Call me."

Erin couldn't look back, could only return the gaze of her childhood home. The windows were dark.

She said, "I will."

There was a note from Papa, pinned in its usual place on the cork-wood board they'd put up. Erin removed the leaf of blue paper and its pin, glancing briefly at the other myriad notes and reminders. 'Clean this weekend', one admonished. '8/25 register for classes,' advised another. There was a news paper clipping up there, too-- pinned lopsided and fading from its month long stay in the direct light from the kitchen window. 'KOREAN VETS HONORED IN LOCAL JULY 4 PARADE', in big, thick letters, with a wide picture underneath. Men, their faces far away and strange, huddled in together. The flags of both countries acted like book ends-- her father was the one holding the Korean flag. 

Frowning over Papa's tight, messy script, Erin reached into the refrigerator and took an almost over-ripe apple in hand. Biting into it indiscriminantly, her fingers condensed the paper into wrinkles and she pitched the wad towards the garbage can. For a while, she stood in the kitchen, until she'd nibbled her apple and her worries down to the core. A glance at the clock told her it was heavy past seven-- she turned with strange resolution and entered her father's study. 

The light was coming through the window and the clear bottle of gin her father kept on the desk, and Erin stepped in its reflected shadow, coming around to sit in her father's chair. Her mind grasped in vain for some vague image-- like a child jumping for a high branch. She pulled out the highest drawer, lifting papers with care not to overtly displace them. Nothing, just reports and medical texts. Some bills. A misplaced copy of 'Time'. The next drawer was much the same, and the one after that-- Erin puckered her lips childishly and pushed the chair back to reach for the lowest storage. 

She did not find what she was looking for, but it had been there before.

_((( It's just a box, brown and made with cheap cardboard . There's tape, heavy and yellowing, on almost all the corners, and Papa lifts the lid with a gentleness odd for something that hardly looks precious. Erin stands in the doorway, dwarfed by the big bookcase and feeling like a stiff china doll in her black velvet dress. It's hot, and her little tights are sticking to the backs of her knees. _

"Papa?" she asks, tilting her head. It seems as if some strange other-land has risen out of the box and laid itself over the study, and Erin remembers something about the danger of opening things. Pandora's box-- yes. But wasn't it also true that the one thing you really needed was the thing that *stayed* in the box?

Her father looks up, startled and staring a her as if he only knows her from some deep-sleep dream. She tugs nervously at her sleeves and her skirt, which Mom hurriedly altered so she could wear the only black dress she owned. There's a black ribbon in her hair, too, but she feels like it's around her neck, really. Too tight, choking. 

"Erin," there's that smile, the one he has for her, but his gaze returns to the box. She takes a step forward in her shiny mary-janes-- now she can see that there are papers in the box, mostly yellow with blue and pink lines that really look green and orange. Her father shakes the box, looking for something, and it jingles, trinkets in the bottom pressing together. 

"Are you alright, Papa?" she's got her hands out, like she's balancing on a rock in the river. Papa's eyes are rimmed with red and a light purple bellow-- he's been crying on an off, without making a sound, since two nighs ago when the phone said "Hawkeye is dead." 

Erin doesn't understand what this means. To her, dead is the hamster-- Sunshine-- in Ms. Moore's kindergarten class. Dead is what happens to the other kids when she shoots them with the plastic pistol she borrows from Joey White; they fall down and get right back up again to continue the game. 

"Not really, sweet-pea," her father is honest, about this at least-- he doesn't look away like when she asks him why he doesn't kiss Mommy goodbye or hello. Finally, Mommy said she didn't want to kiss him anymore. Maybe it's something adults get tired of, Erin considers. 

"Can I help?" she comes around the desk and stands in front of him. Remembering the other night, she says, "I can give you a hug, if you want?" He opens his big arms and pulls her up; she takes two small fingers and tries to pull his mouth up in a smile. It lingers briefly when she lets go, before she just sits down with her head on his chest. Papa reaches into the box again, stares at the shiny, rectangular photo in his hand until she can hear the tears hitting each other inside his chest, trying to get out. Softly, "Who's that, Papa?"

"That," Papa takes a deep breath, laying the photo like a resting child back in the box. She only sees it for a minute-- the details seem unimportant and fade from her mind like Fi rework smoke. "That's the man who's funeral we're... your Papa is going to."

Such a scary word. "Funeral?"

"Uh-huh," Papa's big hand tightens in her hair, but it doesn't hurt, "they're going to put his body in the ground. I have to go watch them put his body in the ground." Then he's lifting her back down on her own two feet, because Mommy is standing in the doorway, and he's saying that he's changed his mind, he's got to go alone. Erin steps backwards until her tiny back presses against the bookcase; her parents suggest, in carefully coated tones, that she go change out of that hot dress and head outside to play. She slips deftly between them, like she's walking on the line drawn down the middle, but she still hears things as she goes down the hall.

Papa; sad, very sorry, "I *do* love you, Peg."

And Mommy, her voice soft and hard all at the same time; "I love you, too. It's funny, I only realized it a little while ago; I love you, just not..."

They finish together, "Not that way." There is no bitterness.

Mother says, "Go on. I'll take Erin to my parents' for a little break. We'll be here when you get back."

That isn't true-- there comes a night, a week later, when Mommy has her bags packed and her pretty, light pink jacket buttoned up. She and Papa stand on the front porch, with the moths gathering around the light and Erin watching through the window. Mommy stands on her tip-toes and Papa bends down a little; they kiss goodbye, and it looks so funny that Erin wants to laugh, but can't.

It would be wrong. )))

There was just a slight vibration in the floor, but Erin-- an interloper in her father's study, the sanctuary in which he shut himself away-- felt so completely caught that she shoved the drawer back into its cradle in a reflexive movement. Her finger-bones and skin where pinched unpleasantly in between the wooden panels; she freed them hastily and pushed the drawer closed again. Absently, she pressed the offended digits to her mouth-- outside, the garage door finished its ascent and the vibration in the floor stopped. Almost loosing her shoes in the hurry, Erin fled, pausing only to return the door to its previous half-open position. 

"Erin, sweetheart?" her father's voice, and the sound of the kitchen door closing. 

"Coming, Papa!" Running her thumb over her still-smarting fingers, she came through the living room and leaned over the counter separating carpet from the tile of the kitchen. Almost bemused, as she lifted her fingers for inspection once more-- they were stick and smelled like strawberries, the lip gloss Abigail had given her. Hastily, she wiped her hands on her dress. "How was your day, Papa?"

"Fine, fine," briefly, her father raised his blue eyes to meet her gaze and offered her a smile, before he returned to the task of sorting through the mail. " meant to work a little later, but they ran me out," he shook his head, a little amused, and carefully tore open a small ivory envelope, "How about you?" 

"It's nice having a little break between semesters," Erin grinned, "Gives me a chance to catch my breath."

"You deserve a break," BJ Hunnicut came around the counter and slung his arm to rest on his daughter's shoulders, " You were studying so hard I thought your brain was going to leak out your ears." He held up a letter in familiar, spidery handwriting for Erin's inspection. "Your Mom wants us to come up to Seattle for Thanksgiving again. You wanna go?" 

Here she was, under her father's arm-- she could smell soap, the antiseptic, sweat and beneath all those the smell of human blood Papa tried so hard to scrub away. She was looking, not at the letter with her mother's funny little script 'a's and curled 't's, but at her father's hand, wide with carefully cut fingernails. Hands that dipped into human flesh, that poised holding organs apart, looking for the cancerous rot, or plucking leg veins to repair a heart. Here she was, in the kitchen, and Papa was in a sad sort of good mood that came so often in the summer.

__

(It's a summer night; she's sitting on the sheets in a green room that smells of her mother's powder and perfume. The phone says, right in her ear;

"Hawkeye is dead.")

It was too much, too easy to take off a part of herself and hide it behind the flower-pot sitting on the front porch. She could come home and be Erin Hunnicut, who lived with her father and was studying to be a Veterinarian-- the good girl with high grades and a sturdy middle class background. She could pretend that the other Erin-- the one who's name could be said only the way Abigail murmured it, "Ae-ryn"-- the Erin who rode horses sitting behind her best friend/lover, the one who pressed her breasts against Abigail's firm back, the one who drew smooth lines and curves with charcoal; well, she could pretend that Erin didn't exist. She could pick that Erin up on her way out the door and leave her at the door when she came home. 

(Blue eyes, kind smile with a hint of a mischievous boy; "Don't be afraid to tell your papa.")

For a minute, Erin blinked, because she could hear herself speaking and had not intended to. 

"Sure," her mouth was letting out, "Last year was a lot of fun. We could have her down here for Christmas, if that's okay."

"That's a great idea," BJ grinned, "You won't be lonely with just the three of us, will you?"

"No," Erin slipped out from under his arm and locked her knees so she wouldn't panic, thinking about one thing and having a conversation about another. "Things are kind of... tense with her family."

"This," BJ lifted a finger, setting the rest of the mail down, "Is very true."

"I think," Erin said, suddenly coming to the realization, "that they're upset you and Mom are such good friends."

"Your Mom is a great gal," BJ's smile held some measure of guilt, "I'd be a fool to pass up her good graces." There came a pause, comfortable; too comfortable. Papa, tossed junk mail in the 'circular file', asked her what she wanted to have for dinner. 

"Papa," she was an iron maiden, her chest was metal and squeezing out the words before she could back out, "I need to talk to you."

She could not feel her face, had no idea what expression it was that made her father still, then reach towards her in concern. She moved out of the way, standing behind a chair with her knuckles white as she gripped the rungs. 

"Of course, Erin, honey," he said, hand still hovering in the air where he'd meant to touch her air, "Are you alright?" She turned away, taking a few steps into the living room, then replied, "Not really. There's just... something I have to tell you."

("Don't be afraid to tell your papa.")

Lowering himself onto the couch, BJ nodded solemnly, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped. "Alright."

Unable to sit down, Erin shifted from foot to foot and knotted her hands in her dress. "I'm in love."

"In my experience," her father said truthfully, "That can be a good thing or a bad thing." There was something, something in his eyes and the set of his jaw.

"Have you ever been in love?" she asked, not sure from where the question sprang, "I mean, besides with Mom?" 

Honesty made BJ's face somehow stark, as if there were two men in there-- the one that came home, somehow defeated, from Korea, and the one that slowly began to emerge and rebuild itself during her childhood. "Yes." His voice was rough, "I was in love, once. Your mother... I loved her, Erin, you understand, she was my good friend, she was wonderful, but..." he shook his head, "Yeah, there was someone I loved."

Somehow, that bare-boned confession, that little seed of sorrow her father nursed with gin, made Erin's blood run harsh and determined. She held herself up as she said; "Papa, the... person... I'm in love with," the sentence somehow ended, she tried to pick it up again, "her name is Abigail."

"Oh, Erin," BJ said-- not with disappointment or disgust or anger, but with an almost hurting tenderness. It was only then that she realized she'd begun to cry, big tear drops that made the world a pool of swimming colors. Her hands raised just a little, frozen and cupped as if she was trying to hold onto something that wasn't there. Her father reached out, pulled her down to sit beside him on the couch, and she sniffled against the shoulder of his soft pink shirt. "Hush, honey," he said, patting her hair, "Shhh... it's okay. Is this what you were worried about?" He laughed, suddenly and at himself, "You're very brave, sweetie."

"Brave?" she lifted her head, trying to puzzle out this new facet of her father. His face was the same, but as with his talk of the one he had loved, there was also a stranger in there too. Then, like a little child, she asked, "You don't want me to leave?" She could swear she was five years old again, frightened by the largeness of the world, "You don't hate me?" 

"You're my daughter," BJ's voice was firm, "I love you, no matter what. Being in love isn't a crime and... Oh, sweetheart, you know, there were times in Korea when I looked at that picture your mother sent me, and I would think I'd never see you again. That maybe you weren't real to begin with. Why would I want you to leave now? You're always welcome here." She'd stopped crying now-- it had been a freak thunderstorm, quick and harsh.

"Abigail's parents kicked her out when she told them," Erin confessed, "They even changed the locks. They tell everyone they have only sons because they don't even want to admit to her." She looked away, "She lives with her aunt, now."

"They're blind fools," her father said with authority, "Being in love is not crime," he said again, then smiled, tilting up her chin, "And you are in love. I can tell-- the way you talk about her."

Erin giggled, giddy with relief, "I do, I do love her so much." Pressing her hands over her temples, she shook her head, "Are you sure? That this doesn't bother you, I mean?"

She watched his face, could tell he intended to say, "Of course I'm sure!" and leave it at that. Then, he smiled, and she saw on his face the same half-goofy, shy look that came over her own sometimes. He seemed to change his mind, sitting back with his arm around her for reassurance. For him or for her, Erin wasn't sure. 

"Tell you a story?" BJ grinned, "I know you're a little old, and it isn't bed time yet anyway, but..." She nodded, unable to ply the words from behind her teeth. 

And there was the stranger, sitting next to her. The other-BJ, who had held onto her and cried, who sometimes sat, drinking gin and staring off into nothing. "Right then," he said, and his voice held that same carefulness with which he'd held the battered brown box years ago, "the story."

A breath in, a breath out.

"When I was in Korea, I fell in love..." he was warming to his subject already, as if the story was there, whole in between his ribs and ready to come out. "Captain B.F. Pierce, the best surgeon in all of Asia, or anywhere for that matter. Everyone called him Hawkeye."

A gasp tried to escape Erin's mouth, but there was no air in her lungs and it came into the air strangled. "*Him*?"

BJ smiled indulgently, "I bet you weren't expecting that." 

"No," said Erin, who's body now lay rather boneless with relief against the other end of the couch. "I never..." She searched for words.

_("Hawkeye is dead."_

Crying. Who was that? Her father had cried for grief, and she had cried for confusion. 

In her mind's eye: a man in a tattered red robe, watches the sun come up over a plain little rural street. He's standing in front of the highest window in the house, the attic, with a drink in hand. He's not crying, but he might as well be.

--Who are you?--

Then, her father; "They're going to put his body in the ground. I have to go watch them put his body in the ground.")

Erin shivered, just slightly. "This isn't a happy story, is it, Papa?"

"No," BJ said with heavy, distant eyes. There was something written back there, behind the dark moons, but it was not for Erin to see. "No, I'm afraid it's not much of a happy story."

"Does Mom know?" she couldn't help but ask the question.

A nod. "Yes." Simple and clean.

She slid a hand up to her father's shoulder, "If you still want to tell me, Papa, I still want to listen."

"I do want to tell you," BJ smiled, partly at his daughter, and partly at the man standing before him in his memory. "But how can I tell you about Hawkeye Pierce?"

================

__

Roses are red,

Feedback is my love,

You can tell I am crazy,

From the lines above! ^_~


	3. A Common Cost

****

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Thanks for sticking with this, guys. ^_^ Nine reviews-- I'm so lucky! *passes out chocolate Hawkeyes and BJs* I'm a little uncertain about BJ's voice in this part, but he seems a pretty earnest guy I tried. We're halfway through-- I hope no one is disappointed. 

And now onward!

=============================

Offer Up Your Last Defense 3/4

By Meredith Bronwen Mallory

mallorys-girl@cinci.rr.com

http://www.demando.net/

=============================

"When I was in Korea, I fell in love," said BJ, when he was ready to go on. "Hawkeye Pierce, the craziest, most dedicated surgeon to ever walk the face of the planet. Don't ever let anyone tell you war is glory or honor or anything aside from a wasteful, senseless slaughter." Erin heard that part before, but he had to say it again; no one could ever say it enough. "Korea will always be a gulf in my life; there's the BJ before Korea, and the BJ after. Sometimes I feel so... different that BJ-before could almost be a guy I might bump into on the street. 

"I was stationed at the 4077th, in the wake of their commanding officer dying and one of their cutters taking a hop, skip and a jump back to the states. The other guy-- the guy who's meals I ate, who's bed I slept in, who's patients I worked on, who's... well, that's for later on. I'll be honest with you, Erin; his name was Trapper McIntyre and to this day I almost hate him. He left without saying goodbye to Hawkeye, just-- poof! Sorry, I have my ticket home and I'm going. I've never been so instantly jealous of anyone in my life. For weeks all I heard was Trapper-this and Trapper-that, and not from Hawkeye, either. He didn't talk about Trapper at all; it was the nurses, who gave me the once over and pouted about my 'actually married' status, as opposed to being just technically married. I heard it from them how close Trapper and Hawkeye had been, how they shadowed each other, chased nurses and trouble together. The enlisted men, too, would casually mention in my presence just how... empty Hawkeye seemed without his 'partner'. Even now, I don't know what exactly their relationship was; I never asked Hawk. Actually, I don't think I want to know-- it would hurt me to think Trapper had something more with Hawkeye than I did, even if it is my own fault for not taking it. 

"Hawkeye was a maniac-- Groucho Marx in scrubs, sorta. But he gave a damn, Erin-- which is a lot more than I can say for the brass that ordered the boys out into those killing fields, or even some of the doctors I worked with. Like Frank Burns, for instance. Hawkeye and I... well, no, that comes later, too. Hawkeye just had this charisma about him, an easy grace and quick wit. What the hell his draft board was thinking, sending him over to Korea, I don't know. They ruined him for life, you know. All he wanted to do was help people live, to beat "the bastard"-- as he referred to death. And they sent him over to a place where he'd have to heal people and then send them right back into the fire. You never get used to it, sweetie, never. His blood is on their hands, not that they'll notice. They're hip-deep in it anyway. 

"Nurses fell for Hawkeye like crazy, and I fell too, though I didn't know it. But I was glad when it was *me* swilling gin with him in our tent, when *we* were getting drunk together at Rosie's, when *I* was helping him with a patient, or he was helping me. I know our relationship was not like the one he had with Trapper, yes, I know at least that much. Hawkeye was my best friend, we kept each other from loosing it. It surprised me sometimes, cause he could make me feel a little happy, and I was already used to being miserable in Korea. 

I... " BJ paused, blinking his eyes as if he had only just returned to the bright living room and was surprised to find his daughter all grown up instead of standing on wobbly legs at age two. He asked Erin, "Do you know *when* it was you fell in love with Abigail?"

Erin captured her lower lip between her slightly-uneven teeth, "I don't know. Maybe it was when we first went riding together, or..." she shook her head, blushing, "No, I really don't know when. I know when I realized it, but not when it happened."

"That's how it was for me, too," her father confirmed, "And boy, isn't that little realization a doozy."

"It *is*!" Erin made a sound half-way between a laugh and a sigh, "You think the world is fine, you're walking on a nice plateau, and then..."

"Boom," said BJ with grim humor. "Like stepping on a land mine. So, like I said, I don't know just when it was I fell in love with Hawkeye, but as to when I realized... He went to fix the stove in the nurses tent-- *after* he'd teased them, of course, and offered them himself as a replacement heater." At Erin's semi-scandalized glance, he laughed, "He was a notorious woman chaser. Notorious, I later found out, to cover some other things, stuff maybe even he didn't want to see." He leaned forward, hands resting in his chin.

"I was kind of half way above sleep. I mean, I could *hear* Frank-- ah, he was our other tent mate-- muttering and being annoying as usual, but I was just about ready to drop off into real sleep when I heard Hawkeye screaming. I still don't know what happened, I jumped up so fast. I was halfway across the compound by the time my mind caught up with the rest of me. It was a flash-burn-- the stove apparently wasn't susceptible to Hawkeye's charms and decided to disagree with him. He was bent over, holding his hands over his eyes. There were a lot of times in Korea that I was scared for someone else's life or scared for my own, but that's really one of the only times I was scared for my *sanity*. Without Hawkeye...." he trailed off, casting a glance at his daughter, "You know how it is, don't you?"

"I do, a little," Erin smiled tightly, "Abigail insists on-- oh, what do they call it? I don't remember, but it's breaking in a horse to be ridden for the first time. She gets thrown, and she gets right back on, the goof-ball," her tone was affectionate, "God, I know what my heart tastes like, its in my throat so often."

"I got a taste of mine, too, that day," BJ confirmed, "To see him, eyes covered, asking who was touching him..." he ran his fingers through his thinning hair, "geeze." 

BJ closed his eyes, as if considering adding something else, but just shook his head. Some things were his alone, to take out when he woke in that endless time between midnight and three a.m, when his life stretched out and he would have given anything to hear Hawkeye breathing near by. 

__

((( He's laying there, with his arms crossed over his chest like he's ready to die, and he's breathing like he's considering it, too, slowing down the intake of his lungs and stopping the flow in his veins. The bandages over his eyes seem like a crime-- the blue is hidden way, and it's scary for the other man to think of that color dulled and sightless. BJ moves without meaning to, towards the narrow hospital cot, then pulls back. Hawkeye sits up, only half way, before collapsing in the decision that it's not worth the effort.

"Who's there?"

For some reason, BJ says, "No one. Just no one."

Disbelief, a little hurt. "Right."

Hawkeye's breathing is shallow, the only sound in the room. There's a sea of empty beds stretching in either direction, interrupted only by the other man who can't see. The Straw boy. Tom, BJ thinks, Hawkeye says his name is Tom. That's on the surface, but BJ is also thinking-- don't ask, don't tell; can't see, can't tell. 

He takes Hawkeye's hand.

Somebody, it could be either of them, says, "I'm scared."

Pause. 

(Wait for it!) 

And he's leaning over the cot, with his hand over Hawkeye's wrist, feeling the blood pound. 

A kiss, a light one. No one can see it, not even the recipient. 

Hawkeye raises his hand, traces long surgeon's fingers over BJ's face, lips, settles his palm on the back of the other doctor's neck.

He says, "Whoever this is," (but he knows! he KNOWS!) "I love you.")))

"Did he... did he have feelings for you, too?" Erin asked, eyes wide, blue orbs of sympathy BJ felt he didn't deserve.

"God help him, he did," BJ choked, "The craziest thing, the worst damn thing, was how I was always going on and on about your Mother. I did love her, Erin honey," the endearment and her name were almost one word on his lips, "but not like Hawkeye."

"Not like that," Erin said, echoing her childhood. She wondered if her father knew she remembered that far back. 

Nodding slowly, the doctor spread his hands, "I was disloyal to your mom just once in Korea, and I beat myself up like hell for it. But... it wasn't with Hawkeye, and maybe that was part of why I felt so guilty."

"Who then?" she inquired, setting a hand on his shoulder as if to say 'it is not for me to judge you'. 

"A nurse. Donovan, was her name. Nice enough, and her husband wrote her a 'Dear Jane' letter. I just felt badly for her, but then... it just sort of happened. But I made that decision. Maybe, I think, because Donovan wasn't Hawkeye-- she was a woman, and I was really having trouble with... well, I don't need to explain that to you."

"No," Erin said, and it seemed to hover there in the bright living room. Outside, the summer night was dark with trees a void against the midnight sky. 

"Hawkeye was jealous, and maybe that was what I wanted. He knew I hadn't come back to the swamp," BJ shrugged sheepishly, "-- um, our tent," as if that explained everything. "He gave me trouble in the morning. If I had been... unfaithful... with Hawkeye, maybe the fact I was in love with him would have somehow 'fixed' it. I didn't love Donovan."

"Did you ever really... come out--" Erin stifled a laugh, "pardon the pun-- about it with it to each other? Your feelings?

"Sort of yes, and sort of no," he replied, "We, I mean..."

__

((("Beej?"

A stir from the other bunk, "Yes, Hawk?"

"You okay?" just a shadow, a beloved outline in the dark. 

"Yeah. Had a talk with Donovan." The words are hard to say. "It's alright."

"IS it?"

The shift of blankets, and BJ can feel the gaze of his friend's eyes, can imagine their intent blue, even if he can not see them. 

Hands reach out across the gulf between the beds, touch, hold on, and let go just as quickly.

They can't say anything, even if they needed to.)))

"... I mean, we only ever kissed three times total, I think. We just *were*-- we were best friends, and we loved each other. It wasn't really enough, but it worked for a while." Such a thing to say to your daughter, BJ thought absently. But that was part of the story, and part of the truth. Silence condensed hard and heavy around them, they could almost hold it in their hands. 

Finally, finally; "Papa, what happened?"

"I came home," how simple, how deadly, "I came home, and I held my baby girl. In Korea, I had something and longed after another; here in the states, I got what was longing for and lost the thing I had. I was trying to be BJ-before-the-war again, and it wasn't working." Then-- there came a look in her father's eyes, so unsheltered, that she felt the extent of his gain and his loss. "Hawkeye and I wrote each other, still talked, but we were... heck, we'd edited things in our own heads, like a movie." BJ made a cutting motion with his fingers, "Snip, snip. Then, after about a year of us play acting, I get a call from Hawkeye, and he sounds so strange over the wire. He talks to me, being the Hawkeye, the real Hawkeye I knew in Korea. I hadn't known how much I'd missed it." Taking a deep breath, BJ leaned back against the back of the couch, closing his eyes so he could just be a voice, "At the end of the call, Hawkeye told me... he said, 'I love you'. Your mother was in the room, cleaning or something, and-- damn it!--" there was real anger in BJ's voice, so strange for Erin to hear, "I only said, 'Same here'. Two days later, Radar calls me and says..."

"Hawkeye is dead," Erin felt caught, but the words were right there. Her father looked at her, long and hard, and she started to think maybe he knew all along. 

"Suicide," her father murmured, as though reading off a prescription, "He might as well have swallowed a small pharmacy. Dear God in heaven. My fault."

As much as Erin wanted to say, 'Papa, it's not your fault', she knew she couldn't condescend to him that way. No one would ever be able to take this from him. "Oh, Papa..."

"Do me a favor," it was said roughly, "go into my study. You know the cabinets under my book-case? Third one over-- there's a box in there. Bring it to me, will you?" He reached over to ruffle her hair, "I don't mean to order you around, honey, but I can't seem to get up at the moment."

Concerned, she checked his forehead with one cool, slim hand, but could divine nothing. Nodding, knowing this was what she had been looking for earlier, she turned and half-skipped-run towards her father's sanctuary. It was right where he said it would be-- still crumbling, still held together with tape yellowing at the edges. As reverently as she ever held the collection plate in church, Erin carried it in and sat it on the coffee table in front of her father. BJ's head was tipped back, he seemed light and heavy at the same time with the release of his burden. She thought he was emotionally exhausted-- later, things would make sense. 

Wordlessly, BJ lifted the lid and set a stack of papers aside; they were yellow with blue-green, pink-orange lines just as Erin remembered. A slim paper rectangle found its way into her hand, and she found herself staring into eyes that, despite the black and white-- she knew would be blue. The smile was the same, you could tell he had lazy grace, and maybe, Erin thought, I'm loosing my mind. That little, quicksilver memory-fish was caught between her hands; she knew where she'd seen that face before. She thought perhaps she should gasp, but there was only a dull, knowing seed in her stomach. 

__

("Funny thing, the human mind-- we only use twenty percent of it and still have enough to carry our own little hell around."

"What's your last name?"

"Does it matter?")

"B.F. Pierce," Erin repeated carefully, searching her father' face, "B.F. standing for..."

__

("Just call me Doc, I'm used to it."

"You have your papa's eyes, you know." )

"Benjamin Franklin. Benjamin Franklin Pierce." BJ elaborated, "His dad called him Hawkeye, from 'Last of the Mohicans. It was the only book his dad ever read."

Unable to help herself, Erin lifted a few more papers to reveal another image, this time in color. A painting, oil, done with sure and careful brush strokes made by slightly unsteady hands. Hawkeye Pierce leaned back with a glass of gin in hand, winking, smiling, his posture saying 'the devil may care'. 

"Finest kind," BJ sighed heavily, "Potter, our commanding officer, gave me that after the funeral. Maybe he knew all along." Stretching, he lifted his feet up onto the couch, and Erin moved to accommodate him. "I'm being an awful parent now, falling asleep after all this. I'm just so tired."

"You're not awful," Erin pressed a kiss to his forehead, remembering seeing her mother doing the same. "You need your rest, you work too hard. Besides, I need to call Abby and tell her the good news."

"You do that," BJ laughed, "Invite her over for dinner-- I'll have my shot gun ready if she doesn't pass inspection."

"Very cute, Papa," she smirked anyway, "I love you."

"And I love you, Erin."

Then she moved into the kitchen so her fidgeting would not disturb him. 

It was too dark outside, and too bright inside. Erin turned off the kitchen light and sat in the little shaft of illumination coming through the window from the streetlight. A shadow passed, light on its feet, while Erin allowed herself the luxury of a complete and exhausting cry. The time that passed was immaterial, maybe it didn't even pass at all. It mattered only that it was dark with the trees and the stars and moon, and it was the kind of hour when the things that shouldn't, aren't supposed to happen, just kind of DO. She saw, just briefly, the glint of blue eyes in the streetlight.

The doorbell rang.

==============================================

[to the tune of "Hickory Dickory Dock"]

__

Click, clickety click,

Meredith writes a fic,

She'll love you forever,

If you give feedback to her,

Click, clickety click.


	4. Someone At the Door

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Alright, I can't sit on this any longer! ^^;/^_~ It's burning a hole in my hard drive! This is, of course, the final chapter-- I hope it doesn't get too weird, or too confusing. Before you read, it might help to think back to the stranger in the diner. ^_^;;; And, before *I* start babbling myself silly, I'll shut up.

So, here goes nothing....

__

Offer up your last defense,

'Cause this is the end of the innocence.

=============================

Offer Up Your Last Defense 4/4

By Meredith Bronwen Mallory

mallorys-girl@cinci.rr.com

http://www.demando.net/

=============================

Erin heard her own footsteps like singular explosions as she approached the front door and pulled it back. She wasn't even surprised to see him. 

"Hello, Hawkeye."

He smiled, more like an innocent, childish smirk, "Guilty as charged, Erin. Everything go okay?"

She nodded, feeling shy, "Yeah. I guess I didn't give Papa enough credit."

"You were just scared," Hawkeye assured her, "happens to everyone." They stood on either side of the threshold, each breathing their terror. 

"You want to come in?" she asked, throat dry.

"You know what that means, don't you?" he spoke like he *wished* he was joking, "I can't come in unless you offer it."

She laughed, tiny and plastic in the warm night air, "I thought those were just old stories."

"They have to come from someplace." The smile was gone, Hawkeye seemed as grasping and tired as her own father. 

Voice shaking, Erin said, "Come in, Hawkeye."

"Do you want something to eat?" At least it was something to say, as they stood looking at each other in the hallway. "I have ketchup to cover it with." 

He laughed, "No thanks. I don't think I can stomach anything." Running a hand through his hair, savagely, he turned on her his eyes as they truly were-- haunted. There was a stranger in him too, one to match her father's. "Damn it... I knew this wasn't gonna be easy. My God. I'm a doctor... er... was a Doctor, whatever the hell the tense is. I'm supposed to beat, not work for--"

"The bastard," Erin finished for him. Death. In all the old books, did they ever say death sent a friendly face?

Hawkeye's grin was genuine, "Someone has been revealing state secrets."

"Not all of them," she replied with assurance, "Just enough to let me know I'm not the only one, and that he really does still love me." 

"Of course he loves you," the... well, he wasn't a *stranger*, ruffled her hair with affection. "And I, the great Hawkeye Pierce," he looped an arm about her shoulder, gesturing his hand off into the distant future, "foresee that you shall have a long, happy life with--"

"Abigail," Erin supplied, amused.

"With Abigail," he finished. Taking hold of her right hand, Hawkeye winked, "Do you swear to fulfill this requirement to the best of your ability, to be happy, healthy and always remember that a little gin never hurt anyone?"

Laughing, "I do."

"Then," he said with a flourish, obvious not thinking ahead, "My job here is..." Silence. The clock in the kitchen chimed some strange hour. "No, actually, it's not done." 

"I know." Hesitantly, she asked, "But you won't hurt him?"

"Never," Hawkeye swore faithfully, "It's not his fault, about me, you know. It was my choice. I just couldn't... well, it wasn't his fault."

"He might actually believe that," Erin said, "if he heard it from you." 

A beat. "We do have some things to work out."

Dryly, she managed, "I imagine you do."

__

("Give your papa a hug, Erin. Don't let go."

You have to hand him over, now. If you love him, you'll let him be happy. He's your father, he's tired. You have to let go.)

"He's in the living room," she told Hawkeye, and then, almost guiltily, "He's pretty healthy for his age..."

"He'll just stop, Erin," Hawkeye was being the doctor now, true and compassionate. "Natural causes. No bullets, no falling into the Sea of Japan."

Her confusion dispelled the hovering memories in his eyes, "What?"

He shook his head, "Nothing." They just stood still, shadows on the wood floor. 

"You better go in there," Erin said at last, "I imagine you don't have all night, and I think Papa has something to tell you."

A brief, ghost 

__

(ha ha, ha ha)

of a smile, but there was love there, "I'd like to hope so."

He crossed the kitchen with an easy gate, and through the doorway, Erin could see him standing over her father, watching, taking the luxury of brushing the other man's cheek with a kiss. 

She was both young and old as she turned away, her steps guiding her without conscious thought. The bedroom was the same, with sea-green curtains and sheets-- only the things that were mother's had been removed. It was still Mother's room, really, and the dust lay over it like a shrine to Erin's childhood. 

She picked up the phone

_(no one on the other end to say it, to tell you...)_

and dialed the number.

"Hello, Abigail? It's Erin."

"Erin!" such happiness in that voice, the same Erin felt for Abigail in return. Then, so cautiously, it made Erin wonder if perhaps hearts *came* in pieces and weren't broken that way, "How did it go?"

"He still loves me," Erin cried, and not solely for that reason. In the morning, her father would be dead, but she wasn't supposed to know that yet. "He knows what we've been through. Abby-- he says there's no crime in love!"

"Oh, love," Abigail whispered over the line; the vibration came into Erin's shoulder and made her shiver in delight. "Thank God. It's so late, I thought something was wrong."

"I'm sorry," Erin blushed, "I didn't--"

"No, no!" Abby laughed, "I would have been ticked if you didn't call to tell me. I was just afraid you were at some gas station and he'd run you out."

"No," Erin shook her head, even if the other girl couldn't see, "no. I'll have to tell you all about it tomorrow." Tomorrow, there will other things to take care of as well. 

Briefly, Erin caught herself almost sobbing.

"Erin? Is something wrong?" Abigail asked, alto voice rough with concern. 

"I just..."

__

(Another conversation, a long time ago. East coast night and West coast afternoon; there's a man in his red robe, staring up at the moon, and a man perched on the couch, watching his wife move about, a bright bird in er day dress, while he clutches the phone.

East, "I love you."

West. "Same here.")

"Abby, I just wanted to call you and tell you I love you."

"I love you too, silly goose. And I'll see you tomorrow. I'll be over first thing."

"Thank you," Erin said, thinking-- Abigail doesn't not know how much this means, not yet. A few more words between them, then there a click on the other end of the line. Erin held the phone like a baby. Downstairs, someone was laughing and crying at the same time, someone was happy, someone was loved. 

__

(It's a summer night, death is a warm summer night. The phone says, a secret burrowing into her ear;

"Hawkeye is dead.")

Erin laid down on her mother's bed, thinking of what she would have to tell the phone tomorrow.

===============================

[to the tune of "Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer"]

"Meredith has finally finished this fic,

an occurrence that causes some dis-be-lief,

And now she will love you forever,

if any feedback you would choose to leave.


End file.
